


One of These Days

by psychomachia



Category: Dirk Gently - Douglas Adams, Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy - Douglas Adams
Genre: Gen, Yuletide 2006
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-25
Updated: 2011-12-25
Packaged: 2017-10-28 02:38:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/302820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/psychomachia/pseuds/psychomachia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As a rule, memory loss should occur after the party, not before.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One of These Days

**Author's Note:**

> Much thanks goes to Elke Tanzer for the beta-read and for showing me where the story should really end.

_If you are human, there will be at least two times in your life that will prove to be the most important moments of your life, though it is improbable that you will be able to predict when they will occur and it is impossible that you will be able to prepare for them._

One, there will be a time when you arrive at a destination without remembering how you traveled there. It can be due to the currents of time, the capricious nature of the universe, or the effect of several gin and tonics on an unprepared body, but the point will come and you will ask yourself "How did I get here?" Some have even asked themselves this question in song, but they are as unable as anyone else to account for their arrival.

Don't expect a logical cause. There won't be one.

It begins in winter with a door, mostly for narrative convenience and to unnecessarily heighten the drama.

The door itself was an unremarkable piece of wood, painted with a rather depressing shade of yellow most commonly found in large barren offices where any form of enjoyment or tranquility must be extinguished through sedative decoration before it infects anyone with the desire to flee to Tahiti and live life as a performance artist.

The wreath on the door was desperately trying to be as unremarkable and non-committal as an ornament could be. If a circular object made of fir, spruce, or pine could talk, this one would be saying "Happy non-denominational holiday of your choice, if you would celebrate such an event, which of course is completely optional and not at all expected by the inhabitant of this place."

Even the door number was a dull one, not one of those exciting new indefinite or unreal numbers, but a solid boring one, so forgettable that in many civilized parts of the universe, it has been outlawed for causing its occupants to lapse into catatonic states.

In all, it was an door that promised the contents within to be as ordinary and boring as any other building where an attempt at decor in the hallway and snippets of headache-inducing music wafting into it promised to attack anyone who thought it might be a good place to find entertainment.

And standing in front of this door, a very ordinary and usually boring man realized two extraordinary facts in short succession. The first: he was wearing a dressing gown and carrying what appeared to be a bowl full of small yellow fish.

He tried to think back, only to be slapped with the second, even more distressing fact. He had nothing to think back to.

It would have surprised him to know, had you been able to talk to him in a rational manner, that this situation was not as uncommon as he might have assumed it to be. In fact, its ubiquity has caused several successful civilizations to arrive at their own version of the formula below to escape from any trouble they unknowingly entered. Less successful civilizations, by not possessing this particular equation, have been fortunate to come away only missing their pants, key body parts, or Alsace-Lorraine.

 _Formula 2142: ((m+d)*(n/h))-a=e or w_

 _Wherein,_

 _m=lack of memory preceding to event, as measured in SI notation. If exact time is not possible to deduce, substitute the first number that comes into your brain. It might be correct._

 _d=danger to one's person in current setting (where applicable, consult Sections 356:198 Dangerous Wildlife, 1045:34 Hazardous Weather Conditions, 4952:1 Comparative Scale of Irate Gods)_

 _n=percentage of body not wearing clothing, bits of furniture, or whimsically placed food items._

 _h=attractiveness of person not wearing clothing. If h > n, clothing will have to be removed in order to bring equation to at least 1.0 ratio for fair compensation to all observers._

 _a=highest proof of alcohol available to consume. If Pan Galactic Gargle Blasters are available, eliminate factors m, d, n, h, e, and w._

 _e=length and creativeness of explanation needed to extricate oneself politely from situation._

 _w=level of weapon needed to extricate oneself violently from situation. If w = thermonuclear galactic warhead, consider e._

 _Note: This will only remove you from the situation. It will not tell you how you got there._

Since the man did not possess this particular equation or even the book he would have found it in, he followed the natural inclination of so many before him: blind and utter panic.

Before this instinct could progress to its next logical step, wildly erratic physical movements of flight, followed by irrational thought and either the purchase of an inexpensive ticket to the office workers' commune in Tahiti or total nuclear war, the door opened and a pack of reporters greeted him.

"How do you feel after undergoing what has to have been one of the most traumatic experiences of your life?"

"Do you miss all that you've lost because of this horrible tragedy?"

"Have you any plans to sue for damages?"

Generally, when you are asked questions of such a nature, you are fresh from the traumatic experience and therefore are ideally suited to answer these questions with the appropriately sobbing plea or incoherent tirade that makes television journalism one of the most moral and ethical professions ever.

The man's response, however, left something to be desired.

"What?"

The reporters, sensing confusion and a severe lack of glamour and pathos, decided to look elsewhere for better game. They eventually settled on a bedraggled advertising executive, whose current misery stemmed from her inability to find where she had last seen her favorite scarf.

The man found himself in a large, darkly lit room, surrounded by a large number of people in small groups, tightly clumped around various pieces of furniture. A brightly lit tree stood in one of the corners, a clear refutation of the wreath on the door.

"If you need to set this down somewhere, I'll take it."

He turned to see an attractive dark-haired woman in a somewhat startling orange dress gesturing to the bowl in his hands. She smiled at him ruefully. "Tricia McMillan. Pleased to meet you."

He gave her the fish and took a moment to think about what his answer would be. A few seconds later, it came to him. "Arthur Dent."

Well, that was encouraging. Arthur took a few moments to think while she was arranging the bowl of fish next to several bottles of cheap wine, a florescent green punch bowl, and some drooping azaleas.

Surprisingly, most of his memories obliged in making an appearance, and a short time later, he had been able to retrace his steps in a quick manner to the current situation he was in. Or at least close to it, since he was fairly sure he had gone to bed the night before, but he could not account for anything after it.

Tricia returned, wiping her hands on a nearby towel. "I'm terribly sorry about the other reporters. They have to cover Horribly Tragic Events That Happen To Other People and it makes them a bit enthusiastic."

"Horribly Tragic Events?" he said, sensing the implied capitalization.

"That Happen To Other People," she confirmed. "It's one of the most popular beats, along with Incredibly Sordid Scandals Involving People of Interest and Economic Issues That Should Interest People, But In Fact, Do Not."

"And you cover...?"

"Inexplicably Bizarre Occurrences That Defy The Laws of Physics"

"How does one get into such a field?"

"Generally by possessing a degree in physics, running into Inexplicably Bizarre Occurrences That Defy The Laws of Physics and realizing there's a career in it."

"That must be a fairly small field."

"But we're very competitive. Only last week a woman named Smith scooped me over a story about odd happenings at a boy's school. Quite unfair, since I'm sure she had help on it."

Arthur decided to ask a question that had been bothering him. ""Hold on a moment. Why would the reporters be interested in me?"

"Well," she said uncomfortably. "Because of what happened today."

Vaguely, the events of the morning crept back to Arthur, sneaking in before he had a chance to question them about where they'd been.

There had been the utter blackness where nothing could be discerned, not light or sound or any sort of life. It was followed by waking up in his bed. So far that seemed right.

He had gotten dressed, brushed his teeth, washed his face, and put a kettle of tea on. That part seemed right too.

The paper was lying on his lawn next to the bowl of fish, which he had picked up. He turned around to walk back inside.

And then the house had blown up.

Ah, there was the important part.

That explained a great deal.

Actually, it didn't. "My house blew up."

"Yes."

"I don't know why it did."

"Actually, that's where my specialty enters in. Your house exploded in a ball of fire at exactly eight in the morning." Tricia pulled out a small notebook from her purse and began flipping through it.

"And this interests you."

"It interests me in that there's no reason for your house to have blown up. The investigators ruled out a number of factors, including the stove, a gas leak, and a random burst of lightning."

"Leaving?"

"Nothing. They decided when they couldn't get an easy answer that it was probably something in the foundation. They would have asked you, but you seemed to have disappeared. So where were you?"

"I have no idea. Do you know where we are now?"

"I...no, I don't." Tricia looked puzzled, then flipped through her notebook again.

The doorbell rang.

Arthur tried to see if he could spur any memories of his own by squinting at people. Tricia flipped to the end, then backwards to the front.

The doorbell rang again.

Unanswered, it launched into a one-note version of what could possibly be interpreted as a loose variation on the finale of Tchaikovsky's 1812 Overture. To be accurate musically, it needed cannons, but the aggressive nature of the bell made it clear that future explosions were a distinct possibility.

"Could someone answer the door?" yelled a voice from somewhere in the room. "Perhaps someone who is standing right by the door and does not have his hands full."

"I think that's meant for you," Tricia said. She put away the notebook and went over to a group of astrophysicists arguing vociferously over the possibility of intelligent life in the universe. The consensus seemed to be yes, there was, but there was a vast gap between those who thought it was infinitely smarter than human beings and those who thought it only pretended to be to get its own book deals.

Meanwhile, Arthur reluctantly turned the knob. He knew that this didn't bode well. It never did for him.

Outside, a ginger-haired man in a leather jacket was waiting impatiently. He carried a black satchel under one arm and a hissing tabby cat under the other.

He seemed strangely familiar. "Should I know you?" Arthur asked, as the man turned around and stepped back to take in the scene around him.

"No," he said and slammed the door shut.

It was done in a magnificent gesture of contempt and loathing, with a dash of going for an international award in acting for a television series, drama.

Unfortunately, it was the door to the coat closet, so the effect was spoiled somewhat.

Ten seconds later, the door reopened and the man walked nonchalantly out, having left his jacket somewhere in the recesses of the closet. The cat seemed to have disappeared also, though the satchel was still intact.

"Right. Would you like an autograph?"

"Pardon?"

"An autograph. Ten for a photo, twenty for a script, and body parts are on a sliding scale, dependent on factors which change day to day."

"You're an actor?" he hazarded a guess. Then he remembered the man's price. "In a television series?"

The man's answering smile would have made a smug crocodile weep with envy. "I'll give you a hint. It's bigger on the inside than the outside."

It couldn't be. "Not..."

"I'm the tenth, since the ninth decided to pack it in. Ford Prefect, by the way, and I've already told most of the jokes, so you don't need to. I travel through time and space, meet attractive people, and occasionally save the world." He extended his hand.

"Arthur Dent." It wasn't fair. Not only was Ford able to pull off a leather jacket with the proper insouciant flair, he was offensively charming, irritatingly jovial, and impossible to really dislike. One of the worst things in life is meeting someone who should make you want to rip off their head and fling out the nearest window and realizing that you'd rather get them a drink.

Ford shook his hand enthusiastically and firmly. "So where do you get a drink?"

Arthur warily showed him the punch bowl, which was providing the majority of light for the room. Ford responded by pulling a bottle out of his satchel and emptying it into the punch bowl.

Then he emptied another one.

And another.

By the fifth bottle, Arthur thought he should say something. "I think you've put enough in to knock out everyone in this room."

Ford grinned. "Oh, it's not for them."

Arthur decided to ask, thought better of it, and stepped back as the fumes began to become overwhelming.

"Here. Because I like you, I'll give you a glass." Ford handed him a glass, which had to be classified as a fire hazard somewhere in the world. "Now drink up." He looked expectant.

Arthur, panicked, said the first thing that popped into his brain. "I have to make a phone call." He set the glass very carefully down on the table, and fled.

Ford looked hurt for a moment, then shrugged and resumed pouring bottles into the punch bowl.

Arthur eventually found the phone sitting atop a pile of towels on a sideboard. He wondered who to call in this situation. Was being trapped at a random party a police matter?

The phone rang as he reached for it.

He did the only thing that made any sense in this situation. He picked it up.

"Hello," he asked warily, for answering random telephones in the past had only led to debates with telemarketers over the virtue of lifetime subscriptions to magazines that would fold in two months.

The line was scratchy, filled with either a rhythmic form of static or someone attempting a new form of a minimalist composition.

"Hello?" he repeated.

The static resolved itself into a familiar voice. "Arthur, darling?"

"Mother? How did you get this number?"

"You gave it to me. You said this is where you'd be this evening."

Arthur froze. "I did? Did I say anything else?"

"No, which is why I was so terribly worried when I heard about your house. Are you all right? You should have called me immediately when this happened."

This was why he didn't talk to his mother more. Her guilt was finely developed, able to transmit itself with all its power intact through telephone lines, second-degree relatives, and dreams late at night. Such a powerful talent, which could be used for good or evil, was mainly used to convince people to floss more and take care of their teeth.

"I'm fine. I know you won't believe this - I'd prefer not to - but there are strange forces at work in my life right now. My house seems to have just blown up for no reason, I have no idea where I am, and for some reason, there's a bowl of fish on the table that seems to be the hit of the party," he said, watching the small crowd chanting around it.

Silence greeted him at the end. Arthur began to fold the towels on the sideboard. She finally spoke.

"Your father wants to talk to you."

There was some sort of commotion on the line, and then he heard his father's voice.

"Arthur?"

"Father?"

The conversation exhausted, both men paused to think of what to say next.

Arthur gave in first. "How are the shoes?"

"Still selling."

"And the house?"

"Still there. Your mother tells me you've lost yours."

"Yes."

"Take care of it better next time. We wouldn't have helped you with it if we thought you'd lose it."

"But it wasn't my fault. At least, I think it wasn't. It's a bit mysterious."

"Right," he said, in a tone implying the exact opposite. "Well, your mother wants to talk to you."

In the background, some muffled argument and then his father spoke again. "Take care of yourself. Are you coming home soon?"

"I hope so." He didn't know why he couldn't be surer.

His mother got back on the phone. "Well, your father and I were just making sure you were all right. You should call more."

"I promise."

His mother sighed. "Are you brushing?"

"Every day. And flossing," he added, to forestall any further questions. "I love you."

"I love you, too." The phone clicked as the connection was severed.

Then it rang.

"I believe that's for me," came a voice from behind him. An old man wearing a brightly patterned Scandinavian sweater pushed past Arthur and took the receiver. "Ah, Lars. How are the fjords?"

Arthur stepped back and bumped into something, which said, "I think you need to talk to me." It was another man, younger, with an ugly nose and an even uglier hat.

"Actually, if you don't mind, I was planning on curling into a tiny ball and whimpering quietly until this all goes away. It's a solid plan that I've used before with great success."

The man took Arthur's hand and shoved something in it. "I insist. Here's my card."

Arthur looked at the grubby piece of cardboard in his hand. "Dirk Gently, Holistic Detective." The detective part would explain the hat. "What exactly does that mean? Do you go around giving vitamins to people until they tell you what you want to know?"

"It's rather more complicated, but essentially, I operate by the principle of the interconnectedness of all things. Many of my clients fail to understand this, and a result, fail to understand their bills, which leads to gnashing and wailing and collection agencies."

"I'm not paying you."

"I'm not asking you to. I just want you to understand the immense stress I undergo on a daily basis, which is why I have very little time for pleasantries right now. I don't know how long we have."

"What do you mean?" Arthur asked, or would have if Dirk had let him. Instead, he opened his mouth only to be interrupted by Dirk grabbing his arm and steering him across the crowded room until they were next to the coat closet.

"I heard you talking on the phone with your parents."

"I can't believe you eavesdropped on me."

"It's not eavesdropping if the conversation was meant for me. Again, you'd be surprised how many people fail to grasp that point. Tell me, how long have you known your parents?"

It seemed obvious, which meant it probably wasn't. "I would say all my life, but I'm suspecting that's not the right answer to your question."

"It is the right answer, just not the correct one. Another question? How long have you known that man you were talking to earlier?"

"The one in the leather jacket?" At Dirk's nod, he answered, "About an hour, I think."

"That's what I thought."

"What?"

"Something's wrong with this universe."

Arthur had always believed this, so it was gratifying to have another person confirm it. "Why do you say that?"

"Because everything adds up."

That would not have been the answer Arthur would have picked. "But nothing makes sense. Where are we? Who are all these people? Why did my house explode?"

"Let me tell you a story," Dirk began to say, before the air in front of him rippled. As Arthur watched in what by now was weary acceptance, the ripple expanded around and then promptly sucked him in.

A tabby cat slunk past Arthur to nose at the spot where Dirk had been standing a moment ago. It mewed and then relieved itself on his hat, which had somehow not been transported in that same manner.

So to add up the evening so far, he thought, his house had blown up in an unexplained manner, there were Inexplicably Bizarre Occurrences Defying the Laws of Physics, an obnoxiously charming person had offered him a drinks that could fell an elephant, his parents had the number of a party he had no idea he had planned to attend, and a man had disappeared in front of his eyes without even giving him any kind of helpful information.

Yes, it was all very mysterious and enigmatic and bizarre and he wished that it would quit being that right now.

Perhaps there was a kitchen somewhere where he could make a cup of tea and ignore it.

And then the last memory hit him.

It was unfair, it was illogical, and he still didn't know how everyone fit in.

But he knew that this was the truth and that everything he remembered had been wrong before.

It wasn't his house that blew up.

It was something rather larger.

 _Two, there will be a time when you arrive at a destination and you remember exactly how you traveled there. Escaping from this will be more difficult because you will have remembered what choices you made to get there and why you can't undo them. The only thing that you can do at this point is to determine what you do next._

 _Don't expect a logical ending. There won't be one._


End file.
